


Practice and Patience

by way1203



Series: The DI, the Iceman, and Imogen [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Fluff, M/M, Parental Lestrade, Parenthood, Parentlock, Paternal Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/way1203/pseuds/way1203
Summary: In which new parents, Greg and Mycroft, struggle to stop their daughter from crying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me the other day, so I wrote it out while waiting for TLD to premiere. I hope you enjoy.

"Imogen, _please_." Greg paced the length of the bedroom, a wailing baby against his shoulder. "Work with me here. Your da's giving it his best."  
  
Mycroft rubbed his temples. "Perhaps you should try sitting down for a moment, Gregory. She only grows more upset when we pace, particularly if she senses agitation."  
  
"I'm not agitated."  
  
"Imogen certainly doesn't think so."  
  
"I'm not!" At her da's outburst, Imogen wailed louder. Greg sighed. " _Oh, fuckin' hell_..."  
  
Mycroft made a face.  
  
"Oh, stop being all high and mighty just 'cause you can calm her down the fastest."  
  
"Well, you're attempting to soothe Imogen now, so evidently I'm not as successful at calming her as you believe."  
  
"Well, I'm not doing much better, Myc."  
  
"Calming her simply requires practice and patience, dearest."  
  
The DI stopped pacing and looked down at his husband. Mycroft sat on the floor with his back against the foot of their bed and his legs stretched out before him. His exhaustion showed in his eyes. Greg wondered if he also looked worse for wear. There was not much he could do to calm Imogen tonight, and Mycroft knew this. The couple had no idea why the one-month-old had been so inconsolable. Her nappies were dry, she refused bottles, and she didn't respond positively to the things that usually helped soothe her. Imogen stared up at her da as she kicked and fussed. Greg wished he could find a way to ease her upset. He truly disliked seeing her face red and scrunched tightly. She looked so uncomfortable, so unhappy and distraught. It made him feel like a horrible father. He raised a hand to his eyes and rubbed them. One quick glance at the clock and he realized he'd been awake going on fourteen hours. He yawned. He was grateful to be home, despite the current circumstances. If it weren't for Sherlock, he would still be at Scotland Yard, possibly downing his third cup of coffee.  
  
Greg eyed the glider in the corner of the room and decided to accept his husband's advice. He took a seat and lifted Imogen to his shoulder. She would calm down soon, right? She'd been going on for hours. Would she carry on into the wee hours of the morning? Greg hoped not. He would honestly start crying if she did. He rubbed her back and cooed. When Imogen started to kick again, Greg opted to cradle her in his arms.  
  
"There, there, sweetheart," said Mycroft. "It's quite alright."  
  
Imogen hiccuped and furrowed her brow.  
  
" _Sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, Low—_ "  
  
"What are you saying?" asked Greg.  
  
"A poem by Tennyson." Mycroft stood and folded his hands behind his back. He'd been sitting far too long and needed to stretch. He lifted his chin to the ceiling. "Sometimes...ah…poetry relaxes Imogen. Although, I believe it's the sound of my voice that captures her attention."  
  
"Whatever it is, I think it's working. Keep going."  
  
" _Low, low, breathe and blow.._."  
  
Imogen's expression began to calm at her father's recitation. Her fingers extended from her tightly curled fists, and her cries eased into whimpers. Greg watched gratefully as Imogen slowly closed her eyes and fell asleep. He smiled at Mycroft. _Thank fuck!_ He thought as he kissed her forehead. Mycroft slowly lifted Imogen from his husband's arms and brought her into his own. He kissed the top of her head.    
  
" _Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep_."  
  
"I guess I need to memorize that one."  
  
Mycroft placed Imogen into the Graco bassinet. "It wouldn't hurt."  
  
"We've got to do something about Imogen," said Greg. "I don't think I can do this every night."  
  
"I agree. I don't like seeing her so upset over what appears to be nothing."  
  
Imogen gave a small whine. Mycroft immediately turned to check on her. Greg braced himself for round three. He attempted to muster up some energy, but realized that he honestly didn't have it in him. Rocking and pacing with her in his arms for the last two and a half hours had taken everything out of him. Imogen hiccuped again and her eyes threatened to open. Mycroft smoothed her hair. He admired the tufts of auburn he'd so badly hoped she would inherit.  
  
"Please don't cry." His voice was even and gentle as he spoke. "Daddy's very, very tired and has a meeting with a consulate in the morning. Judging by the state of him, your da certainly needs his rest as well."  
  
Greg chuckled. That was the understatement of the year. Imogen seemed to understand Mycroft's plea. She continued to sleep without a peep.  
  
"Thank you." He walked toward their bed and sat down. "She has no fever. She's not in need of changing. She spits up occasionally after crying for long periods of time—"  
  
"Speaking of cries, those are like super sonic level cries." Greg groaned and slouched down in the chair. "I mean, Jesus, I've never heard a baby cry that loud and hard."  
  
"I do believe my ears are ringing."  
  
"I'm ready for bed. You joining me?"  
  
Mycroft wearily pulled back the blankets on his side of the bed. "Do you have to ask?"  
  
Greg removed his spit-up covered shirt, tossed away an extra pillow, then poured himself into bed. Once they were both settled, Mycroft glanced over at the bassinet to ensure Imogen was still sleeping, and cut off the lamp. The two faced one another in the middle of the bed and kissed.  
  
"I love you," said Greg.  
  
"I love you, too," said Mycroft.  
  
Their bedroom grew quiet as Mycroft shut his eyes. He'd nearly fallen asleep when Greg's voice caused him to start.  
  
"What do you deduce is wrong? With Imogen, I mean."  
  
"I'm not sure," muttered Mycroft, "but I'm keen to get a doctor involved if this continues."  
  
Greg mulled over the facts. "It happens nearly every night, around the same time, when we're both home. Which, I don't know how she knows that. We work odd hours."  
  
"Don't be so surprised," Mycroft gave a wry smile. "Imogen is a Holmes after all. A Holmes-Lestrade, at that. Honestly though, I think she's vaguely aware of when her da and daddy are usually home together."  
  
"Seven is the witching hour."  
  
Mycroft yawned. "Her crying is always no less than three hours. It's nearly one in the morning, isn't it? I think tonight was the longest. She'd cry, then stop for a moment, then start again."  
  
"Hang on. Say that first part again."  
  
"...Her crying is always no less than three hours."  
  
"Oh my God." Greg sat upright, realization creeping its way across his face. " _Oh_ ,  _no_."  
  
"What?" Mycroft tried to follow his partner's mind but was finding it more than difficult to get the deductions side of his own mind working. He desperately needed sleep.  
  
"It's _colic_ , Mycroft. Imogen has colic."  
  
That word managed to spark Mycroft's memory. He quickly recalled information from _What to Expect the First Year_ and a few mommy blogs. Colic resulted in inconsolable crying and intense wailing that lasted at least three hours. It carried on for weeks or months, but would eventually go away on its own. Mycroft rolled onto his back, an exasperated swear escaping his mouth before he could stop it. Greg stared at his husband, then chuckled. Mycroft often managed to keep a lid on any expletives, particularly after Imogen was born. He really must have been tired.  
  
"I don't know how I missed something so obvious," said Mycroft. "But you are correct. It's colic. Poor Imogen."  
  
Greg scoffed, "Poor us."  
  
"Indeed. You know, I snapped at Anthea yesterday."  
  
"Are you serious? What for?"  
  
"I'd just finished speaking to the prime minister. My patience was already nearing it's end. Anthea asked me if I wanted my afternoon tea early, or if I wanted to go ahead to another meeting."  
  
"So you yelled at her?"  
  
"Indeed, I did." Mycroft closed his eyes. "It wasn't my proudest moment. I've never raised my voice at Anthea. She did nothing to deserve it. I was just that tired."  
  
Greg gave an understanding nod. "Well, you're in good company because I bit John's head off on Tuesday."  
  
"Watson, or the custody nurse?"  
  
"Watson."  
  
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "What was the reason?"  
  
"John asked a question at a crime scene. He wanted to know how it was possible that the victim was stabbed to death, when he had been dead for hours and the stab wounds appeared to be more recent. Sherlock was the one who brought up the discrepancy with the wounds and the COD." Greg took a deep breath and shook his head. "I know John was directing the question at your brother, but I lost it."  
  
"The body was planted, wasn't it? Killed elsewhere by other means," Mycroft waved his hand. "Then placed at the scene and stabbed to make it appear that that was the cause."  
  
"I believe that's what Sherlock said after he, Donovan, John, and a few other officers managed to quit staring after my rant."  
  
"Did you tell off Sherlock in the process?"  
  
"No, actually. Only John."  
  
"Shame. He needs a good telling off.  No one has done it in at least two months. It's good for him. Keeps his ego in check."  
  
"You could do it," suggested Greg.  
  
Mycroft could feel himself start to drift off again. "In my dear brother's case, some things don't have the same weight when they come from me."  
  
"You say you stopped, but you still worry about him, don't you?"  
  
"As much as our daughter in the bassinet beside you."  
  
"We really ought to go to sleep."  
  
"...I had attempted to."  
  
"You're right. Apologies." Greg placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft's lips, which he accepted and reciprocated. "'Night, love."  
  
"Goodnight, Gregory."   
  
"Goodnight, Imogen." 

There was a cooing that slowly gave way to a cry. Greg started to get out of bed when Mycroft stopped him. 

"I'll get her," he said. "You go make us a cup of tea and get the book. I believe there's a section on colic we should review." 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Mycroft recites is The Princess: Sweet and Low by Alfred Lord Tennyson


End file.
